


Voodoo

by omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), A semi-passable attempt at fluff, Anal Sex, At least he tried, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Cas tries to swear, Castiel doesn't understand the mechanics of sex, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Cursed Castiel, Cursed Dean, Cursed Sam, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, Facials, Forced Sex, Frotting, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, I just put all my kinks into one fic and explained it by using the magic of voodoo, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Nipple Play, Not Enough Lube tbh, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Top Sam, Voodoo, Voodoo dolls, Voyeur Castiel, in which 'heck' is a swear word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9763550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: Castiel has found a pair of completely normal, totally unsuspicious dolls. It's just a coincidence that they look familiar, a bit like Sam and Dean, and it's probably also a coincidence that they look so nice when they're pressed together...





	1. Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay I promise this is a small side-venture from my main WIP. I wrote it while incoherent in a desert. All subsequent typos are the property and problem of my decrepit brain and we'll be back to the scheduled [All Yours](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9277115/chapters/21023936) main broadcast shortly.
> 
> (Dub con warning since no one verbally consents but everyone wants to idk)
> 
> PS sorry this posted THREE TIMES I don't know what's going on AO3 :K  
> I deleted all of them by accident while trying to fix it... sorry to the one person who had a bookmark--hope you find this again! (Original title was "Who Do You Do Voodoo To" so maybe I was just tempting fate)

The lowest floor of the bunker was reserved for the weird stuff. Cursed objects. Jars of eyes. Dusty beakers full of liquids that didn't always behave like dusty beakers full of liquids. It was Castiel's job to sift through it. He had a slightly better chance of survival thanks to his grace, though that hadn't stopped his arm from turning bright blue last week for no adequately explained reason.

So here he was on a Tuesday afternoon, sifting through piles of ancient debris that had been set aside by generations of hunters. Some of the artefacts may have been lethal last century, but had long since worn down to nothing more powerful than feeble gusts of wind. He picked up a brooch that had once been cursed to destroy the wearer. It half-heartedly attempted to persuade him to call his step mother. He briefly considered hiding it in Dean's pocket as a joke, but in the end he just incinerated it with a sigh and a puff of grace.

Dean was too stressed for practical jokes, anyway. The world was still falling apart and there was never enough time or money or laughter. Castiel fervently _fervently_ wished for some way to offer hope, or solace, or maybe something more, but neither Dean nor his brother were interested in the kind of companionship he could offer. He wasn't even sure what kind of companionship he _could_ offer, but he was willing to be whatever the brothers needed. Unfortunately, it always felt like they needed a talisman-destroying angel, rather than a friend.

 _I am an_ angel _,_ he wanted to say. _I could make you so happy, if you'd only let me._ But he knew the response already. Dean would shutter, baulking from his open arms. Sam would smile sadly and pat him on the shoulder, play-acting sympathy when what Castiel really wanted was acceptance. Trust.

He gently disentangled himself from a shoelace that was valiantly trying to throttle him, incinerating it sadly. The pile of debris was endless, and his melancholy grew at the sight of it. In a fit of disgust he shoved at the closest pile and it toppled noisily. A pair of disco-ball earrings stabbed a screeching basketball until both lay exhausted on the ground.

A pair of pinkish dolls had wound up next to his foot. He bent to retrieve them. They were plastic, about a foot tall, with no clothing or facial features. They reminded him of the mannequins at the mall, except smaller and naked. He held one in each hand, trying to determine their level of malevolence. He couldn't pinpoint their exact function. His grace slipped off them like oil. He scrutinised them closer. They had no features at all. Plain, pink, plastic puppets.

Sam might have an idea of their purpose. Or maybe even Dean.

He felt a slight twitch in each hand, as though in response to his thoughts, but when he looked back at the dolls they were still limp and featureless. Although, now that he was looking, one of them _did_ look slightly bigger. And the other one... why were its legs like that? He put them both on the ground, side by side, but couldn't determine the difference.

His head throbbed. He was overusing his grace and he needed a cup of the molecules that Dean called coffee. He imagined that the second doll twitched at the thought, and he decided to take them with him. He would ask the boys for an opinion.

"Dean," he called as he entered the kitchen.

"In here," came a voice from the other room. Castiel turned the corner and found both Sam and Dean hunched over separate computers, backs curving over the table as though their spines were too heavy. Facing away from each other.

"I have a question for you," he said on the back of a sigh.

"Yeah and I have one for you," Dean replied without looking up. "Ever heard of a Bloomatrix?"

"A what?"

"Being of darkness. Half plant. Eats human flesh?"

"The description is unfamiliar."

He went to Dean's side and read over his shoulder. They discussed the possible merits of a silver bullet over a silver stake. Sam piped in to remind them that it was easier to sigil a stake. Dean told him to butt out. Sam huffed loudly. Castiel reminded everyone to calm down. Dean made unflattering conjectures about Sam's brain. Sam threw a balled up piece of paper at Dean's head. Castiel swatted it away before impact. Dean kicked at Sam under the table and Castiel finally admitted defeat and left them to their squabbles. The dolls remained forgotten in his pockets.

The problem was that Sam and Dean had forgotten to _talk_. They still spoke to each other, but the recent years of fighting and dying had whittled down their communication tools. They both had too many barriers.

In the end Castiel put the dolls on his bedside table. "Why don't you just talk," he implored the taller one, picturing himself saying it to Sam. The doll didn't respond.

\----------------------

In the end they used silver bullets. The Bloomatrix gargled nastily as it regurgitated its last meal, and Mrs. Stevenson's left hand oozed out of its petalled mouth before it finally collapsed in a gooey pile. Dean raised his gun pointedly in a shrug, as if to say _I told you so._ Sam ignored him.

The ride home was strained, but unusually so. Usually Sam and Dean were silent as Dean pumped music into the awkward confines of the car, but for some reason this week's hunt had them bickering the whole way. Castiel stayed with them for a full hour before growing tired and simply flying away from their ridiculous cyclic arguments.

Back in his own room he stared at the two dolls, sitting side by side. He must have been tired when he first picked them up because features were easily distinguishable on them now. The taller one was a shade darker. The smaller one had the faint outline of a stubbled jaw. If he tilted his head just right he could have almost passed them off as Sam and Dean, but incomplete versions. As though the artist had gotten bored halfway through and forgotten to finish.

The dolls were sitting side by side but facing away from each other, just like the real Sam and Dean. Castiel turned their faces the other way. He knew they were only dolls but he got an odd sort of satisfaction at forcing these replicas to look at each other.

"Be nice," he warned them.

He climbed into his bed. He didn't sleep—didn’t have to—but lying on the mattress at night was an easy way to stay calm and think. He rolled over and stared at the dolls. They were facing away from each other again. He forced them back.

They were limp and kept falling sideways, and their heads would loll away from each other. Castiel spent the entire night watching them, and every time they lolled sideways he would prop them back up. By the morning they seemed to have settled in a good position, and had stopped rolling apart. He felt silly but he gave them both a pat on the head.

He was surprised to find both Sam and Dean at home and awake when he went to the kitchen. They would have driven all night to get back but neither of them had gone to bed yet. They were huddled at the table, drinking coffee and yawning, heads close.

"Morning," Castiel said apprehensively. "You're back early."

"We would've been back even sooner if Dean could keep his damn eyes on the road," Sam replied, but he was laughing as he said it, eyes twinkling at Dean who was grinning ruefully back.

"Late night jitters, what can I say? That'll happen when an angel up and vanishes out of the backseat."

"My apologies." Castiel turned the kettle on.

"Don't blame ya. Sam was kicking up a fuss all the way home. Twitchy bastard." Dean ruffled Sam's hair as he got up, smiling sleepily. "Gonna hit the hay. See you two in the afternoon."

Sam got up too. He came around the kitchen table and stole the water that Castiel had just boiled, filling his coffee mug. "I'm gonna finish up in here then I'll be asleep too," he yawned.

As Sam left the kitchen Castiel realised it had been the first conversation in a year that hadn't ended in a fight. The Bloomatrix must have had some relationship-healing spores or something. He refilled the kettle.

\-----------------------

A week later and the goodwill still hadn't worn off. Sam would make two cups of coffee and take one up to Dean in the garage. Dean would shuffle his chair over at night so Sam could sit next to him instead of across the table. Castiel continued to watch them both in silent fear, waiting for the shoe to drop.

He was still aching, but seeing the brothers smile at each other was filling a void that he hadn't even known existed. He wanted them to be happy. He wanted them both to be so full of happiness that it overflowed from their hearts and minds. He was unselfconsciously aware that he wanted a tiny piece of that overflow. He wanted their happiness to touch him, too, even if only in a secondary manner. Their joy was paramount to his own.

He stared at the dolls, trying to decide on a course of action. Over the last few days he had dressed them up a bit. A scrap of fabric from one of Sam's ripped shirts. The dirty cloth that Dean sometimes used in the garage, smelling of oil and dust and something like home. He stared at them as though they could give him the answer to a question he didn't even know.

"I just want you to be happy," he told them, but they didn't respond. It was night, and the bunker was quiet. The Sam doll was listing to the side as though it was too tired to stay upright.

Castiel thought for a moment and put the dolls back against the wall, sitting next to each other. He decided that they did in fact look happy like that, but not _overjoyed_. Just content. He tried another pose, sitting them back-to-back, but it looked... odd. He turned one of them around and that looked a bit better, the two dolls nestled into each other like they had always meant to fit that way. The dirty clothes of the smaller doll didn't look so dirty anymore. Castiel moved some plastic limbs so the taller doll was wrapped more securely around the back of the smaller.

He stepped back to examine this new pose. It looked a little uncomfortable at first but then both of the dolls fell backwards without Castiel's supporting hand, landing clumsily on the wall. The smaller doll slipped a little, and then its head fit perfectly under the chin of the taller doll, which almost seemed to respond by holding it more firmly.

If dolls could look happy then these two would be the happiest. Everything about the pose radiated peace and calm. Castiel decided that he would talk to Sam about it the next day, and try and convince him to try it with Dean. It seemed like the perfect way to give them both joy.

But the next day broke cold and clear, and Castiel didn't find an opportunity to talk to Sam. The two brothers were moving around each other as though frightened. They were like magnets, irresistibly drawn but impossibly far apart. They circled in the kitchen without realising it, constantly aware of the other's location. He noticed that they were both wearing the same clothes as the day before, as though they had slept in them. Something had happened. Something had changed. The Winchesters had always been a universal constant for him and now they were acting... inconsistent.

Castiel, terrified of a renewed animosity between them, didn't attempt to break the silent, calculating truce.

That night he again turned to the dolls, which were ever-more frequently becoming aides in his ongoing attempts to help the brothers find happiness. He used them as props to fantasise about ways to help them communicate. A part of him was constantly aware that his obsession was useless, that the dolls would never be the real Sam and Dean, but another part of him couldn't help it... couldn't stop trying to find a way.

"Why won't you find comfort in each other," he agonised at them, and his heart was breaking because he _knew_ it would help them, but he would never be able to tell them in person.

He collapsed on the bed, holding one doll in each fist. They hung limply from his grasp. He was suddenly, desperately sad. He dropped the dolls on the bed beside him in a tangled heap. The smaller one, the one that looked increasingly like a miniature Dean, was on top. The dolls were chest to chest, limbs awkwardly outstretched on all sides. Castiel left them and went to fetch a cup of tea. A sure-fire cure for his melancholy (he hoped).

On the way back he heard muffled voices from Sam's room. Dean must have woken his brother up to discuss a case. He contemplated joining them but figured that they would call him if they needed his opinion.

In his own room he pottered around, realigning things that weren't out of place. It took him a full five minutes to look at the dolls on his bed, and when he did he had to double take. The larger doll, the one wearing Sam's shirt, was now on top. He cast his mind back and he was sure, _sure_ , that it hadn't been like that when he left. He touched the dolls, casting his grace out, but he _still_ couldn't find a trace of malevolence or purpose. The dolls were just... dolls. Albeit disconcertingly familiar dolls.

He pressed at them more firmly with his grace, and they jerked at the pressure but didn't exhibit any other tell-tale signs of a cursed object. He studied them closer. The Sam doll had a thigh in between the Dean doll's legs. Castiel felt a sharp twist, low in his gut. Looking at the two dolls was making him feel, well, _dirty_. An unwelcome voyeur. That didn't stop him from running a finger down the length of doll-Sam's spine, pushing him down just a little harder. The smaller doll's head dropped back as though in pleasure, and Castiel felt the same _dirtywrong_ twist in his gut at the idea of Dean doing just that with Sam above him. It was terrible. A betrayal, somehow, as though even picturing them like this was a misplacement of trust. But doll-Sam had its arms around doll-Dean's head, framing him, and Castiel couldn't look away, couldn't stop himself from the shuddering desire for it to be true. He _wanted_. Wanted both Sam and Dean to feel like this. To be warm and safe with each other. His heart punched silly sinful patterns in his ribcage but he did the same move again, rocking the taller doll down, and he imagined that it was Sam and it was _wrong_ , but he couldn't stop, didn't want to. The image was so clear in his mind and he felt a reaction in his own pants, the terrible hardening of himself that happened so infrequently. Instead of the usual embarrassment he felt something else, something good and simultaneously bad. He rocked the dolls again, and doll-Dean had its head thrown to the side so doll-Sam could fit against its neck, and Castiel imagined them speaking.

Dean would be quiet, he imagined wildly. Sam would love the aborted sounds he made. They would be breathing too hard to kiss but Sam would whisper into Dean's ear. Filthy things like the girls on Dean's computer but also sweet things, little nothings lost in sweat and skin.

"So beautiful," he said to the dolls, imagining that it was Sam's voice, not his. He rocked them together harder, repositioned doll-Dean's legs a little wider so doll-Sam fell between them even easier.

They would blaspheme a lot, too, he imagined. Dean in strings of swear words and Sam in punched out shouts. Castiel's Father would be named, right there next to curses, and the thought made him sick but also giddy. His erection was now painfully insistent against the inside of his pants, but he didn't want to move so he blinked, and with a puff of grace he was naked. He was kneeling on the bed, using one hand to push the dolls together, wrap them up tight, and with his other hand he searched down his chest, along the planes of his stomach to the hard length between his legs. Touching it was— _oh_ —bliss incarnate. He realised why Dean had once tried to introduce him to Chastity. He wished more fiercely than ever that the real Dean and Sam could find this, could give this to each other.

He worked his hand up his own length, and with the other he rubbed at the dolls, increasingly hard but decreasingly skilled, running out of finesse as he approached a pinnacle in his own pleasure. He angled himself toward the dolls and wondered what would happen. He imagined himself releasing his pleasure on the intertwined figures. He imagined Sam and Dean reaching that unnamed height at the same time as he did. Sam would clench his teeth and Dean would go slack jawed, and right at the end Sam would say something. Something like, _It’s okay to shout_ , words which Castiel now groaned at the dolls, stripping himself one-handed as he did.

He felt himself reach a crest, begin to ascend, to see the descent that awaited. His body tensed. Nearly.

_Nearly…_

Someone screamed.

Castiel lurched, jerking off the bed and tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap.

_What?_

He tried to look around, gain his bearings. He had been on the bed, close, so close, to something unnameable and pure. His brain struggled to change directions, to focus. He had been... had been _touching himself_ while imagining Sam and Dean... his _friends…_ he had been bringing himself pleasure while he imagined them.

He felt sick, and then remembered what had broken his concentration. A scream.

He ran out the bedroom door.

The scream had been short, cut off at the end. It had come from down the hall. Sam's room. He sprinted toward it.

"Sam!" he panted, banging on the door. He tried to push through but it was locked. He gathered some grace, which was still a little scattered from his sudden about-turn from pleasure into fear, and prepared to blast the door open.

"I'M FINE!" came a shout from the other side.

"Sam!" he said again, too relieved to say anything else.

"Nothing to... to worry about, Cas. Go back to bed."

"Are you sure? If you are injured I can heal you." He tried the door again.

"NO! Uh, no thanks, Cas. All good. See you in the morning."

Castiel sagged, and stepped back. He realised that he was still naked, still somewhat hard, and he felt weak when he realised that Sam would have seen him like that if he had gone into the room. Maybe that's why Sam hadn't let him in. Maybe he had _known_ , somehow. Castiel cringed and couldn't get to his room fast enough. He locked the door behind him.

The dolls were still on the bed, lying side by side but still tangled together, limbs askew and heads close. Castiel felt sick just looking at them. He had almost betrayed his best friends. His _only_ friends. He picked up the dolls and shoved them into a drawer and promised himself that he would never look at them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm not sure how to explain this one, guys. I was overworked and underslept? I wrote it on my phone without internet or spell check? This fic is one in a series of me simply giving up on idle chatter and sustaining plot solely through angst, interior monologues and sex. Fuck logic.
> 
> Good news is I'll be updating every day or two though so... yay :)
> 
> Original [prompt:](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/118435.html?thread=42924963#t42924963) Someone (totally up to you) gets ahold of Sam and Dean voodoo dolls, and makes them do all kinds of naughty things to each other ;)


	2. Sam POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dolls are in a closed drawer where they can't possibly tempt Cas into sin. So why is everyone acting so shuttered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this is dub-con. Everyone's super turned and stoked to be doin the do, but Cas doesn't really know what he's doing so it gets erm... uncomfortable-ish?? 
> 
> In other words, welcome to my brain in 47 degrees. (THAT'S 108 FOR YOU AMERICAN IMPERIALISTS)

Their eyes kept meeting across the kitchen table. Sam would be pouring himself a bowl of muesli or reaching for a spoon and his gaze would slip sideways and there would be Dean, staring back. They would both blink, blush, and look away, remembering last night.

Last night...

Last night had been _weird_. But... blissfully so. Their hips together, still clothed, breathing hard...

His eyes locked with Dean's. _Again_. And again he remembered the way Dean had broken off a moan when Sam had slotted a knee in between his thighs. The exact curve of his spine as Sam pressed down. Their eyes met one more time, and something of the memory must have been in Sam's face because Dean flushed, darker than before, and his eyes opened wider.

Castiel loudly turned on the kettle, and Sam jerked his gaze back to his breakfast. He had forgotten the angel was even in the room, which was, well, odd, now that he thoughts about it. Castiel usually chattered in the morning, but today he was notably silent.

 _He knows,_ yelled a voice in Sam's head. _An angel knows what you did. How you made your brother shout as he came._ Sam flinched and glanced at Cas sideways. Sure enough, the angel was acting weird. He was filling his coffee mug while somehow simultaneously looking sheepish. Sam's eyes slid to the side, away from the angel, and of course there was Dean, staring back and blushing.

He took his breakfast into the other room, giving up on a normal meal completely.

Castiel avoided him for the rest of the day. Sam was worried, but the memory of Dean gasping beneath him stopped him from getting _too_ worried.

The way he had shivered when Sam whispered in his ear...

_God dammit, Dean. So fucking beautiful._

That night he went to his room early, and showered fast. He changed into a pair of boxers, showing skin, and then changed his mind and added a pair of sweatpants. Then he put on a singlet, too. Which he changed to a loose tee.

 _You’re being ridiculous,_ he told himself. He was acting as though he was preparing for Dean's visit. Which he wasn't, obviously.

He lit a candle, though. Just in case.

Then he brushed his teeth again.

And blew the candle out, waving his arms to dissipate the evidence. _A candle?_ What had he been thinking?

(He left the matches on the table.)

Minutes ticked by. He poked his head out the door. Not to see if Dean was there, of course. Just to, like, look around. But the bunker was silent and dark.

He paced next to his door.

Did Dean expect him to go to Dean's room? Was there some kind of unheard-of chivalry for incest? Like _Oh hey I made you come last night so tonight we’re using your bed?_ Sam shook his head. Checked the hallway again. Relit the candle. Paced some more.

Minutes turned to hours.

 _Maybe,_ said an evil voice in his head, _He regrets last night. Maybe he regrets you._ He almost cried at the thought.

He decided to wait for Dean on the bed and somewhere in between the waiting and the fretting he must have had a restless sleep because it was suddenly morning and the bed was cold and empty beside him.

Breakfast was even more strained than the day before. Even more strained than the morning after they had spooned in the lounge room, when this _thing_ between them had still been tense and unknown.

Castiel was quiet again, too, and scurried from the room when Sam entered, somehow shy. The rigid set of his shoulders would have been adorable in any other circumstances, but Sam missed the perky grin and tussled morning hair of the angel.

Dean looked about as bad as he felt. Like he had tossed and turned all night.

They didn't talk about it.

In fact, the talking stopped altogether. The easy camaraderie that they had developed on the drive home from the hunt last week faded, and Sam felt its absence as a physical ache. At night he paced his room, praying for a knock at his door and berating himself for not going to his brother himself. He wanted the careless easiness of their first embrace. The way Dean had slid into his arms seemingly without a conscious decision to do so.

Looking at his bed was painful. The memory of Dean's body there. The way Sam had rolled them, had ended up on top. The whole thing had felt so... normal. Like they had always meant to fit together that way. Even the strange moment when they had both jumped at the same time, and Sam _swore_ he had seen Cas, or maybe felt him, but then he had been harder than he had ever been in his life and the moment had passed. He touched the pillow where Dean's head had rested and traced his hand down to the exact place at the curve of Dean's jaw where he'd whispered filthy things into Dean's skin.

 _Dean,_ he ached, but the bed stared back at him emptily.

Days passed in this manner, and no one broke the silence that seemed to permeate the bunker. Dean would hole up in the garage, and Sam would spend fruitless hours looking for another Bloomatrix, or _any_ hunt that might kick start their ‘thing’ again. The void across the table where Dean usually sat was like a black hole, consuming Sam's gaze and his thoughts and siphoning away the happiness he had unexpectedly found in the heat of his brother's body.

Cas was faring no better. The angel didn't need to sleep but he looked _tired_. Worn down. His usually bright eyes were permanently downcast and there was a pallor to his skin that had never been there before. Sam knew that Castiel didn't like it when Sam and Dean were fighting, but this was different. Worse. Guilty, somehow, as though the angel felt at fault for the silence.

They didn't talk about that, either.

He stopped lighting the candle at night. Dean never came down for breakfast anymore. Cas avoided his eyes. He stood at his door and wished he could break through the blanket of indecisiveness that seemed to have settled over the bunker.

A week passed and Sam saw Dean only three times. The atmosphere had finally broken Cas.

"Your brother slept in the car last night," the angel told him that afternoon. When Sam only shrugged in response Cas teared up, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it and stormed off. Sam sighed, gave up on research, and went to take a shower in the bunker's communal bathroom.

His heart broke for Cas but he couldn't do anything about it. Couldn't act on anything anymore. He turned the shower on and stepped into the warm spray, hoping that the heat could permeate more than just his body. His very _soul_ felt cold. He washed his hair mechanically.

It happened as he was reaching for the soap. Suddenly, in his head, one pounding need.

DEAN.

He raced from the bathroom, not bothering with his clothes. The garage was on the other side of the bunker, too far, too far.

DEAN.

He had to cup himself as he sprinted, his junk flailing wildly though he couldn't make himself slow down at all. At the end of the hall a door opened. Dean stood there, framed as if on purpose. Pupils blown wide. There was a smear of grease on one cheek, and his clothes were dirty too. Sam barrelled into him, didn't even know what he was reaching for until he got there. Wrapped himself around his brother like he had wanted to for days.

DEAN.

They fell to the floor, but Sam was too full of Dean to notice the jar in his knees. His hands were on Dean's waist, shucked up under his shirt. Dean had a fistful of his hair, another hand on his shoulder, working down, feeling the planes of Sam's back. They rocked into each other, grabbing wildly, pulling closer.

DEAN.

It was like last time. Just as good. Just as unexpected.

He didn't make the conscious decision to undress his brother but suddenly his hands were at Dean's fly, unzipping him, pulling clothing apart. Dean's skin was as grease-stained as his shirt, and Sam's fingers slip-slid across his chest and down his stomach. They rolled onto their sides, legs tangled, staring at each other. Then they both sat up, clawing, getting to their knees so they were skin-to-skin from floor to nose.

Sam wanted to kiss him but something held him back. He couldn't close the distance between their lips.

They rolled again, couldn't seem to stay still, as though they were both trying to decide on the perfect position. Then Dean was sitting in front of him, back against Sam's chest like that first time, almost as if they were trying their first embrace to see if it still worked. Dean wriggled, and Sam's dick slipped against the crease of his ass, and he decided that the position _definitely_ still worked. He rutted upward. Dean groaned, but then they were changing position again and half of him wished that they weren't but the other half was already moving on an instinct that wasn't even conscious.

"Dean," he groaned, and he realised that they hadn't said anything to each other yet so he said his brother's name again, getting a moan in return.

The concrete floor began to make itself known as Sam knelt on it again, but he was almost incapable of moving off it, as though some other force was holding him there. The impala was only a few feet away, and Sam envisioned dragging Dean into the leather interior, or maybe onto the freshly waxed bonnet so they could leave handprints on the metal. He almost got up to move to the car but something stopped him, and instead of standing he crawled down, crouched around Dean's calves and then his lips were parting and he was taking Dean into his mouth.

"Christ!" Dean swore. "Warn a guy!"

But Sam's mouth was full and he didn't have a response anyway, hadn't realised that he was going to do it until he'd done it. He licked and sucked and bobbed down, hard, and barely came up for breath even as he felt Dean touching the back of his throat, choking him. It wasn't bad though. Or, maybe it was a little, but not bad enough to make him pull off because he stayed down there, throat closing instinctively against the pressure. Dean put his hands in Sam's hair, tugged and pulled, just on the right side of painful.

Sam groaned. Saliva was spilling out of his mouth, and everything was wet, wet, wet. Dean was shuddering beneath him, pulled tight, and Sam wanted to pull off, wanted to make it last, but he mustn't have wanted it hard enough because suddenly Dean was spilling on his tongue and Sam was still sucking him, getting spunk everywhere, swallowing some and letting the rest coat his cheeks and the inside of his mouth.

"Stop," Dean panted, too sensitive, but Sam kept licking, even as Dean softened beneath him. "Stop, Sam, Jesus, ah!" Dean twitched, trying to evade Sam's mouth. "Sam!"

He finally pulled off. "Sorry," he said, and meant it. He didn't know what had come over him, but Dean couldn't have been too mad because he was pushing Sam onto his back, turning around to sit on his chest before leaning over him and returning the favour, sucking him down to the root.

"Christ!" he yelped, a mirror to Dean's earlier shout. He bucked up, but Dean's weight held him down, so he grabbed at Dean's thighs, which were bracketing his face, and dug his fingers into the hard-muscled skin. Dean took him deeper.

Dean's cock was resting wet and limp on his chest, and Dean's ass was RIGHT. FUCKING. THERE. He put his weight on his elbows, pushed up, and licked a stripe from Dean's balls all the way back, shocked as he did but not stopping.

Dean made a high pitched sound that could have been a scream but it was lost in between Sam's thighs.

Inexplicably, Sam thought of Cas. Wondered what the angel would say if he was here, if he could see Dean like this. Sweat and grease slicked and moaning around Sam's dick.

Sam licked again, wasn't sure what he was looking for until he found it, a tiny furl of skin that twitched as he breathed against it. He reached up with one hand to press a finger to that spot, one pad barely pushing. He licked around the digit and Dean trembled above him, and distantly Sam thought that maybe this was going too fast, but then his finger was pressing in, and his tongue was easing the way, and he was _inside_ his brother.

Dean jerked as he breached the tight ring of muscle, and it pushed Sam's dick further into his mouth. Sam hitched a gasp, thought about swearing and then found a better use for his mouth, pushing a tongue in next to his finger. It was hotter than he expected, and he slid his finger further in, helped by nothing more than spit and perseverance. It was tight, almost unbearably so, but he shoved his tongue as far as he could and the spit helped a bit and it didn't matter because he was pushing in regardless, couldn't have stopped if he tried, and Dean was sucking patterns onto his balls so he pushed in just a little further and twisted, feeling the give. He would have liked to stay there for a while, twisting hottly against Dean's insides, but soon (too soon) he was pulling his tongue out and replacing it with another finger, somehow squeezing in to fit alongside the first.

"Wow," he said shakily, and couldn't think of anything more to add. His fingers were being swallowed up and he could see the outside where Dean's flesh turned into Sam's but he could _feel_ the inside, slick and tight and so incredibly hot. He curled his fingers around, and again he wasn't sure what he was looking for until a found it, a spot on the inner wall that made Dean jerk, pulling off him momentarily to swear, full-throated.

"Jesus fuck, Sam. Do that again."

So he did. Once. Twice. Again. He felt Dean harden against his chest and they both trembled when Sam touched that inner place. Dean jerked in reaction, sucking Sam harder, and Sam jerked in reaction to _that_ , and he felt like he could be moments away from coming but he also felt something holding him back.

"Dean," he moaned, and watched as his fingers spread slightly, pushing out against Dean's insides. He did it again, and his fingers formed a dark space between them, beckoning. He spat, horrified as he did so but hopelessly turned on, and used his fingers to push the saliva into the dark interior, where it slid out of sight. He kept his fingers spread as he pulled them free, slowly, enjoying the tightness at the entrance that clung to him.

When he was fully out Dean pulled off him and turned around so he was now straddling Sam's thighs. Their erections bobbed side by side. Sam wondered if Cas was going to grab them both and jack them, but then he shook his head because Cas wasn't here, it was _Dean_. Dean looking flushed and hard and rising up on his knees as he shuffled forward to— _oh._

"Wait!" Sam blurted, but Dean was hovering above him, already sinking lower, and Sam tried to press him back, slow him down, but it was like fighting against honey, his movements slow and difficult. He instinctively knew that they needed more lube, that a bit of saliva wasn't enough if Dean planned on doing this which— _woah—_ it  looked like he did. Like, NOW.

He scanned around the garage. There was a bottle of gun oil on a nearby table.

"Dean!" he choked. "The oil!" But Dean wasn't listening, was pushing down against him, head thrown back, looking like a statued porn star covered in semen and saliva and grease and suddenly the tip of Sam's dick _popped_ past the muscle and he had run out of time.

He scooped his hand across the mess on Dean's belly and quickly transferred the wet, greasy lot to the rest of his dick, moments before Dean slid down it with a soft _oh_ that sounded like surprise.

Dean's head rolled forward and they stared at each other and then Sam's eyes widened because he had somehow only just realised that this was _sex_. He was inside his brother. They were having real, honest-to-goodness _sex_. In a _garage_.

"Holy shit," they said in unison.

And then Dean leaned forward, took his weight on his hands, began to move, and neither of them said anything intelligible for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you about this fic. Don't say I didn't.


	3. Cas POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincestiel ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudoses are feeding my poor dead heart.

Castiel was miserable. He had promised himself that he would never even _look_ at the sinful dolls again, but it was only Thursday and this was the third time that he'd been hard at the thought of them.

The first time had been an accident, sort of. He had just been taking them out to look, after a fight with Sam, and the thought of Dean spending another night alone in the cold garage had made him immeasurably sad until he had basically been _forced_ to reunite the dolls, just to soothe his own broken nerves. And then, well... things had gotten out of hand. As though the dolls had _wanted_ to be together.

The second time had been an accident too, in a way. He had decided to incinerate the damned things but he had ended up cradling them as they rolled into each other. He had doll-Sam on top, because he didn't want to play favourites, and then he had felt embarrassed at the thought so he had put the dolls back in the drawer but five minutes later he was still hard so he had dug them back out and they were still in the same position so he had jerked himself anyway, feeling guilty and awful but unable to stop.

He didn't know what he was going to tell Sam and Dean. He hadn't seen them for days, too scared that they would see the guilt on his face and know _exactly_ what he was guilty about, so he had been hiding himself in his room and on the lowest floors of the bunker, terrified of the moment they might come looking for him.

Tonight was different, though. He had crept back into his room at midnight, carefully tiptoeing past Sam's bedroom door, but when he got into his room he found that the dolls were already wrapped around each other. He poked at them, waiting for them to fall apart, but they didn't. If anything, they wrapped up even tighter. He frowned at them, and a needy little part of him felt a bit, well, _excluded_. He tried to pull the dolls apart, but they didn't budge. He sat on his bed and attempted to use his grace, but it just slid off again, the same as last time. He changed tactics and wrapped his hands in grace, the same technique he used for touching souls or healing, except when he went to pull the dolls apart it felt like _actual living flesh_ thrumming through his fingers and he dropped the dolls in surprise. For a moment the replicas had felt like the real thing, like Sam and Dean sitting in his hand, their emotions radiating surprise and—he blushed— _lust._

The dolls had sprung apart when Castiel dropped them, but they were already rolling in the dips of his mattress, limbs flopping lazily back on top of each other. Castiel separated them before they could get stuck together again, and ignored the part of his brain that felt a little like _jealousy_. This was research, pure and simple. He had to discover why the dolls had felt real beneath his grace.

He held them in separate hands and they felt normal. He removed the scraps of fabric to touch more of the dolls’ skin, but beneath his fingers they still just felt like plastic.

He slowly eased his grace down his arms, into his wrists, over the backs of his hands and up into his palms and— _yes_! There! That was Dean! That was what Dean felt like when he was surprised. Castiel had felt it before when he raised the broken man from hell. And in his other hand... _Sam_. Equally shocked, the way he had felt when Castiel had first healed him.

He squeezed the dolls between his hands and was shocked to feel that other emotion, _lust_ , as it surged out of his fingers like electricity, swallowing him up and vibrating through his whole being.

He didn’t notice his grace trickling out of his fingertips to intertwine with the figures. He was too busy tracing the silhouette of doll-Sam's legs, and putting a gentle finger on doll-Dean's lips.

He realised that his grace was no longer reacting to the doll’s emotions. That was his _own_ lust fizzing through his veins.

"Cas!" Someone was pounding on the door. He blinked and shoved the dolls under the blanket. Sam was at the door, arm raised to strike it again as Castiel opened it a crack.

"Sam," he said, trying to sound curt, wanting to be alone. Dean was behind Sam's shoulder and Castiel angled his hips behind the door, hiding the small tent in his pants. He shouldn't have bothered, though, because Sam pushed the door open and barged in, and Dean followed. Castiel noticed that neither of them were wearing shirts, and he looked away, blushing at the memory of stripping the dolls in the same manner. The reverberations of lust in his fingers were making his hair stand on end. "What are you doing?" he asked as Sam turned to face him.

Sam looked confused. "I'm not... I don't know."

Castiel turned to Dean, who looked equally confused. "I think you were supposed to... to..."

"To touch me?" Sam finished.

"To hold me," Dean clarified. 

Castiel could feel his grace still humming with the aftershocks of lust, and he very much did not want to touch anyone while those reverberations were still volatile, but then he caught sight of the little trail of hair leading down from Sam's belly and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. He blushed, and his grace hummed even faster.

"Uh," he said, holding his hands out in placation, "could it wait until tomorrow?"

Dean and Sam shared a look.

"No," Sam said simply, and then Dean was stepping in close and Castiel held his hands up higher but Dean simply leaned down and sucked a finger into his mouth. Castiel felt his legs wobble and suddenly Sam was behind him, holding him up, a line of heat against his back and a hard, insistent pressure at the base of his spine as he rocked forward.

"W-what are you doing?"

"Dunno," mumbled Dean, biting gently at his finger and making Castiel tremble in Sam's hold.

"We never know. It just happens," Sam clarified. "It's better when we just follow our instincts." He breathed into Castiel's ear, licking a line up the sensitive shell. "Wanna see?"

Dean grabbed at his hand and then he was sucking four fingers— _four fingers_ —into his mouth and it was lucky that Sam was holding him up because Castiel lost complete control of his legs.

"S--Sam," he stuttered. "Dean, _oh!_ DEAN!"

Dean grinned, somehow looking cheeky with four fingers stretching his mouth obscenely wide. There was saliva on his chin and his tongue was squeezing between Castiel's fingers, rubbing roughly at the sensitive pads and skimming at the knuckles.

Castiel was pretty sure he still had a functioning skeletal system, but it didn’t seem to be working properly because he could no longer hold his own body weight and his limbs had gone floppy and boneless.

Dean didn’t seem to mind, though. He just kept licking and biting and _sucking,_ making wet noises against his fingers that Castiel could feel _and_ hear.

"He's perfect like this, isn't he?" Sam whispered into his ear, and Castiel could only whine because the implication was that Sam had seen Dean like this before and it was too hot, too impossible, all of Castiel's dirty dark fantasies in one sentence.

"I think he likes it," Dean pulled off to say, and Castiel took the moment to gather his thoughts.

"This... shouldn't be happening," he managed, but it came out like "thissbsmmmmmaaa" because Sam had slotted one enormous leg in between his and the pressure was, _oh_ , amazing.

Dean grabbed his tie and tugged him toward the bed, and Sam somehow managed to walk lopsided because when they tipped onto the mattress his leg was still between Castiel's.

"Clothes," someone growled, and it was only a moment between one blink and the next and their clothes were gone, folded neatly on the floor and Castiel had literally never been more grateful for his grace because now both Sam and Dean were fully naked, glorious, and touching them both was power beyond belief so he touched as much as he could. An arm. A shoulder. The dip in one waist before the swell of flesh that bridged lower and he wanted to touch that, too, so he did, skimmed the line of Dean's ass with one hand and Sam's with the other and they both moaned.

"Touch me," someone begged, and Castiel already was but he pressed harder, felt the flesh that he had fantasised about for weeks.

Castiel oscillated between them, touching everything he could, and ending up in the middle of the bed, ensconced in warm bodies with Sam in front of him and Dean a line of fire against his bare back. Sam grabbed Castiel’s knee and hooked it up so that it slung over his hip, and that must have been an invitation for Dean because he felt cool air between his cheeks for only a moment before it was replaced by a finger and he wanted it, wanted it _now_ , so when Dean pressed forward he used his grace to force the muscles into accepting, and it was indescribable, a single finger pushing through and in, even if it felt a little strange and uncomfortable.

" _Ah!_ " he cried, incapable of anything more articulate than that. But Sam picked up the slack.

"Dean," he scolded, "lube."

And that was odd because Castiel had imagined Sam saying that once before, but he didn't even really know what lube was so how could he have imagined it?

But Sam picked up the slack again, rummaged in a drawer to pull out an unopened tube of something. "Knew you'd still have this," he muttered, and Castiel remembered getting the silly thing from Dean last Christmas, some kind of joke, so he just watched as Sam flipped open the cap and squeezed something onto a finger. It was a clear gel. It looked innocuous enough but then Sam was reaching round and blindly finding where Dean and Castiel were connected.

It was cold when he felt Sam touch him, but he barely needed to use his grace again before Sam was slipping in beside his brother, and then there were _two_ fingers inside him and it was cold for only a second and then it was hot, too hot, because they were both moving against him, no rhythm, just a slick slide that Castiel could now tell was helped by the addition of the gel.

Sam pulled out and before Castiel could mourn the loss Dean was replacing him with an extra two fingers and he didn't even need to use his grace because he was slick on the inside and Dean was making a noise in the back of his throat that was half growl and half whine, a sound that had him shaking. He could feel something warm lodging in the pit of his stomach, and Dean seemed to feel it too because he was pushing further in, trying to reach it with his fingers.

Castiel was so focused on the feel inside him that he jumped when Sam touched his erection, fingers slick from more lube and hand so much larger than his own.

Sam shuffled in closer and Castiel didn't even need to think, just stretched out his own hand and took Sam, breathless at the feel of hot flesh in his grip. Sam moved and Castiel copied his actions, a twist for a twist, a stroke for a stroke, fingers sliding down to card through curly hair and rub at the sensitive testicles buried there.

Behind him he felt Dean pull out completely, and Castiel got an aborted warning: "Cas, I'm gonna," before there was something else pressing against him and when he pressed back Dean gasped, the most pleased sound he had ever heard, and in one swift move Castiel felt himself penetrated again, but it wasn’t fingers, this time. It was _Dean._

Someone shouted in Enochian.

He had stopped moving his hand so Sam angled himself closer and took them both, stroking long and languid. Dean, in counterpoint, did a series of short sharp thrusts, pulling out only marginally each time, and the arrhythmic pattern sent sparks shooting up Castiel's spine, probably would have fried his brain if he didn't have his grace.

_His grace!_

He tried to organise it, but Dean had picked up his pace and Sam had reached down to fondle him and it was harder than imaginable to gather enough energy to do anything in return, the feeling of being full so hard to ignore, but he concentrated on a tendril and wrapped his grace around Sam, shivered at the feel of hot skin against the most intimate part of his being, and tripped down the bumps of his spine. His leg was still flung over Sam's hip but he now went lower, slid between his cheeks, and Sam must have felt it because his slow pace lost some of its rhythm and Castiel grinned, sunk lower, and then pushed up into the hole he found there. There was no friction, of course, but Sam visibly jumped anyway, and when Castiel swelled his grace he let out a full-throated yell.

"Oh God!" Sam cried, and Castiel's Father shouldn't have been such a turn on but it was when he could feel Sam squeezing around him, and Dean was grunting in his ear as he jackhammered so Castiel swore back.

"Oh heck!" he shouted, and it was the dirtiest thing he had ever said out loud, made him shiver, made his grace sing with electricity and then Sam was practically writhing, squeezing them both, impaled by Castiel's grace.

"This isn't real," Castiel moaned, because how could it be, how could it, and then he felt something hard pressing into his hip and for a moment he thought it was Sam but it was something under the covers and when he pulled it out he saw the two dolls, wrapped together but also wrapped in his grace—how had he not noticed?—and it became suddenly, shockingly clear.

Sam squeezed as Dean shoved forward and he came with a hoarse shout. The grace wrapped around the dolls glowed. He saw doll-Dean's face morph in ecstasy and then felt as the real Dean twitched and released inside him, and then Sam was following suit, splashing Castiel's chest and growling as he came.

It was too pure, too good, and he gasped on a broken sob, because it _wasn’t_ real. He'd heard of voodoo dolls before; should have known the signs, was so desperate for it to be true that he hadn't even guessed, had even linked his own grace by touching them earlier.

And now he could free his friends from the curse but even thinking about it made him shake, and Dean's hand was pulling insistently at his shoulder and Sam's hand was on his waist, and he wanted nothing more than to answer that need but he couldn't, he couldn't. It would be the worst kind of betrayal, to find pleasure in their bodies when it wasn’t theirs to freely give.

Castiel gave himself a full thirty seconds of bliss as Sam and Dean touched him, cooing in his ear and rocking against him. Then he closed his eyes, located his wings and flew out of the room.

He found himself in the darkness on the lowest floor of the bunker, where it had all begun.

He glared at the dolls through a haze of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh heck!"


	4. Sam POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel left the poor brothers alone in his bed, but they seem to have made the best of it.  
> Even though...  
> Wasn't Castiel going to break the voodoo's hold?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter in which I attempt to turn this shitshow into fluff.  
> Concern levels: high.

It wasn’t like it used to be. There was none of the easiness. None of the wordless agreement. But as Sam tightened Dean’s handcuffs he decided that he preferred it that way.

Used to be that they would just find each other and do what came naturally, but for the past week they had somehow broken the ‘we don’t talk about it’ rule and had actually come up with some pretty decent ideas.

Sam had started it, really. He kept imagining their handprints on the impala’s waxed hood, so he had crept into Dean’s room one night and brought it up, and the speed at which Dean had reacted had been a good sign ( _God, Sam, didn’t know you had a kink for Baby_ ), but the car hadn’t been big enough for the both of them so they had ended up sitting side by side on the leather seats, masturbating to the sounds of each other’s breathing.

The next night Dean had gone bright red as he asked Sam to touch his nipples, and they lay on the bed while Dean jacked them both and Sam had felt pretty goddamn awkward as he pinched and squeezed, but then he had seen Dean’s face—slack-jawed and panting—and had leant closer to take a hardened nub in his mouth.

It was the longest orgasm Sam had ever gotten out of Dean, and the clean-up had taken half the night ( _How did you get jizz on the freaking_ pillow _, Dean?_ )

They had been even better prepared the next time. Googled and did research and everything. Sam kept remembering how Dean had looked as he rode him in the garage, and so he had haltingly asked to try it himself.

They had prepared everything in advance, with lube on the bedstand and water and tissues at the ready. Sam had been so excited. He wanted to know what Dean felt like inside him. After all, Cas had gotten to feel it.

Which, by the way—

Where _was_ Cas?

Sam desperately wanted to talk to him, because the angel was probably freaking out still, but neither he nor Dean could find him, even when they prayed.

It was lucky they had something else to distract them.

He took a step back to admire his work

“This was such a good idea,” he breathed, because _fuck,_ Dean was spread out naked on the bed like someone’s wet dream and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was _his_ wet dream.

Dean had been the one to request tonight’s adventure. When Sam opened his bedroom door his brother had been standing there with three sets of handcuffs and a grin straight from the set of a porno.

“Wanna try something new?” he had asked, and there was only one answer to that, really, so Sam had dragged him in for a kiss before pushing him onto the bed.

The handcuffs rattled a bit as Dean moved. One on each ankle, keeping his legs spread, and another keeping both wrists above his head, shackled to the headboard. The spare key was tied to Dean’s finger with a piece of string, always in reach.

“How’s it feel?” Sam asked, and he traced down the underside of Dean’s arm.

“Tickles.”

“I meant the cuffs.”

Dean tugged at them, brought his knees up as far as they would allow, and then squirmed, seeking the limits of his boundaries.

“There’s a lot of give,” he hesitated.

“There’s supposed to be,” Sam replied, and he tickled his fingers along Dean’s side, making him jerk.

“I thought I’d be more, I dunno, stretched out?”

“You look pretty stretched out to me.” He flicked at a brown nipple, and Dean jerked even harder.

“Can they go tighter?”

“Bed’s not big enough.”

“Oh.”

Sam grinned. “Is this not kinky enough for you, Dean?”

Dean squirmed. “It’s just, you know… I thought the point was that I wouldn’t be able to move. Like I wouldn’t be able to get out or anything.”

“But you can’t get out.”

Dean eyed the headboard where his wrists were shackled. “Yes,” he said confidently, “I could get out.”

“But you _won’t_ get out. Because I told you not to. Even if I held you with a feather you wouldn’t get out. You’re letting yourself be held down.”

“Yeah but couldn’t we do it with stronger cuffs?”

“Sure, but you’d still have a key. And you could still tell me to stop. You’re letting me dominate you.”

“Oh,” Dean said. And then, “ _oh._ ” Sam watched as Dean’s dick hardened a bit at the implications.

“I’ve been googling,” he confessed with a grin.

Dean bucked a little into the empty air. They both knew he _could_ get out, but it was hot because he _wouldn’t._ Not when Sam had told him not to.

“Want to try something else?”

“Umm,” Dean replied, a little breathless. “Does it involve you touching me? Because _yes._ ” His hips moved instinctively again.

Sam chuckled as he went to his closet, pulling out a folded scarf. “I want to put this over your eyes.”

“What the hell for?”

“So you won’t be able to see me when I touch you.”

“But you _will_ touch me?”

“You’re so freaking needy.”

He tied the scarf around Dean’s head, and checked it for gaps. Dean protested as he wriggled, obviously unhappy at the distance between his dick and Sam’s hands.

“Tell me if it gets too much,” Sam told him.

“We are _nowhere_ near that point,” Dean grumbled.

Sam gave in and touched him.

Light, teasing hints with just the tips of his fingers, to start. Trailing down his sternum and tickling his belly button. Circling his nipples and rubbing them gently between two fingers as Dean chocked on a moan.

Then he took his hands away completely, just to watch Dean squirm, before putting his hands back somewhere else. On his neck, or down his ticklish sides.

“Sam!”

He hummed in response.

“ _Touch me,_ god dammit.”

“I am.”

“So help me God I will rip these cuffs off, Sam.”

“No you won’t,” he grinned, and then he bypassed Dean’s dick completely and cupped his balls, rolling them gently.

“ _Huunnnnh!_ ”

There was a knock at the door.

“Cas,” they said simultaneously, freezing.

“Invite him in,” Dean said, still breathless but somehow desperate for more.

Sam pushed the scarf up, flipped a blanket over him and went to answer the door, keeping Dean out of sight in what was probably misplaced chivalry.

Cas looked bad. _Shockingly_ bad. Like he had been sleeping in the basement for a week.

Which, Sam realised, might actually be true.

“Cas, jeez, we’ve been trying to find you…”

“I have a confession.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, who hadn’t gone for the keys and was still spread out underneath the blanket.

“Can it wait?” he asked, turning back to Cas.

“No,” Cas replied, looking dishevelled but determined. “Where’s Dean?”

“He’s here. He’s, uh, _in bed_.”

Cas looked surprised but clearly did not get the insinuation. “I’m glad that you have retained your friendship after what I did to you,” he said.

“What you did to— _no,_ Cas, you didn’t do anything… that wasn’t… we _wanted_ that.”

“Damn straight!” Dean yelled from inside.

“Actually, _we’ve_ been trying to find _you_ ,” Sam continued. “We wanted to apologise to you. We kinda just showed up in your room and, you know… without even asking.”

“Sam, that’s not—”

“Just hear me out, Cas. We found a better way. Like if we talk about it before we, you know, _do_ it. It’s loads better. Seriously. We decide what we want to do and _then_ do it.”

Cas didn’t look excited, or curious, or disgusted. He looked _miserable._

“You don’t have to do that anymore, Sam. I wiped the dolls a week ago.”

“You what now?”

Cas held up two pink figurines that looked a bit like naked barbie dolls.

“Are they _voodoo dolls?_ ”

“Cool,” Dean shouted. “Can we get back to what we were doing now?”

Sam ignored him. “How long have you had these?” he asked Cas.

“A few weeks.” Cas looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “I accidentally imbued them with your essence and then… then I…”

The last few weeks began to take on a new light.

“Cas… did you… did you voodoo us into having sex?”

Cas was literally shrinking in on himself, and Sam thought he might cry.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I swear I didn’t mean to. I just wanted you to be happy.”

“Well,” Sam paused, “I guess you did. We’re, uh. We’re pretty happy now, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, obviously you shouldn’t go voodoo-ing us again, but like… no harm done, right?”

Cas blinked up at him, a tiny beam of hope. “And you and your brother aren’t fighting?”

“Well, I mean, Dean gets pretty mouthy when I try to take things slow, but mostly we get on just fine.”

“Try to… take things slow?”

“Yeah,” yelled Dean. “Like when he has to go to the store to get more lube before you can fuck him!”

Cas took a step back, shocked. “You shouldn’t have to… I’ve wiped the dolls!”

“About that...”

“You are no longer under any obligation—”

“You wiped them a week ago, right?”

“I—Yes. Sorry it took me so long to tell you.”

“But it’s been a week since you last voodooed us, right?”

“Yes, but—”

Sam smirked and pushed the door open wider, so Cas could look into the room.

“D-Dean?”

“Hiya Cas.”

“What are you doing?

“I can tell you what I’m _not_ doing. I’m not coming because _someone_ ,” he glared at Sam, “won’t fucking _touch_ me.”

“Ah, oh… oh my.”

Sam remembered how Cas had been so averse to swearing last week, and how every touch had seemed new and surprising to the angel. He suddenly wanted to dirty him up a bit. He stepped back so the angel could walk into the room, dropping the dolls onto a table as he approached the bed.

Sam followed and pulled the covers off his brother. Dean was still hard underneath, and he let out a little whine as the fabric of the blanket brushed him.

“You gonna join us, Cas?” he asked breathlessly.

“I would… I didn’t… You’ve been doing this even without the dolls?”

Dean grinned, and it would have been roguish but the effect was somewhat lost because of the scarf haphazardly pushed onto his forehead, sticking his hair up everywhere. Cas touched it in a silent question.

“Tonight we tried blindfolds,” Sam explained.

“And did… did you like them?” Cas directed the question at Dean, who shrugged indifferently.

“S’alright,” he replied, but his straining dick belied the nonchalance of his words. He rolled his hips at Cas instead, an obvious invitation. “So, you gonna join us?”

“This is… it’s too much. I can’t take this from the two of you if it’s making you so happy.”

“Don’t have to do the taking,” Dean winked, and Sam rolled his eyes but the innuendo went right over Cas’s head.

“I want you to be happy,” the angel replied instead. And Sam rolled his eyes again because how anyone could be this obtuse when Dean was _that_ naked was a serious mystery.

He picked up the dolls from where Cas had discarded them.

“Cas,” he whispered at one. “Dean.”

The dolls twitched in his hands and, grinning, he brought them together. The real Cas turned to Dean in surprise, and then groaned as he collapsed onto him, reaching for his overlooked dick.

“Fuck, yeah,” Sam whispered.

“Fuck, yeah,” Cas said, louder, blushing as he swore but swearing anyway.

Sam’s grin widened.

Maybe the dolls could stick around for a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this is literally as close to fluff as I could get. D/s-ish conversations and Cas saying a naughty word.
> 
> Sex and FeelsTM will continue over at my main WIP, [All Yours](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9277115/chapters/21023936).
> 
> {shameless self promotion}


End file.
